Double Trouble
by cupcake-999
Summary: Sequel to Double Date. Sherlock and John might have realised they loved each other, but that's not enough. That's not even enough for a beginning.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Double Trouble

**Author**: Cupcake-999

**Sherlock/John**. Rated T.

**Summary**: Sequel to _Double Date_. Makes sense to read that first.

Sherlock and John might have realised they loved each other, but that's not enough. That's not even enough for a beginning.

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. These characters do not belong to me.**

**Chapter One**

Their first weekend together as a couple was over. They'd managed to reach the living room, steps heavy, having carefully avoided catching each other's eyes and making sure to keep at least a foot of distance between them on the cab ride home in the dusk, without either speaking. John of course cracked first.

"Well, that was…"

"Brutal." Sherlock delivered his judgement throwing himself down on the sofa with his back to the room, still in his coat and scarf.

"Indeed. Who would have thought being banged up for the weekend in the police station would be quite so…"

"Inhumane."

"Um. Or that entering the lobby of the Ritz to be arrested for credit card fraud by Scotland Yard's finest would be so…"

"Humiliating."

"Huh. Or forced voluntary repayment schedules so…"

"Barbaric."

"It really was. The whole thing. God. Tea?"

"We're out of milk." Sherlock must have felt John's amazement at this because he deigned to turn round. "We were out of milk on Friday and we've been away all weekend, so I'm deducing we're still out."

"Unless the milk fairies have been. You know, like the dish washing fairies, and the cleaning fairies, and the laundry fairies. That's how things get done round here, isn't it? Oh wait, no, I do them."

The look in Sherlock's eyes snagged John and he sighed, feeling guilty for taking things out on the other man. Although why he should feel guilty when Sherlock's playing fast and loose with _objet trouvé _credit cards had led to their arrests he didn't know.

"I'll make some herbal. Maybe chamomile will make us sleep and we'll forget."

Although he doubted he'd _ever_ forget Anderson's unalloyed glee and clicking camera as uniformed officers happily avenging years of mistreatment by Sherlock had clapped them in handcuffs and bundled them into separate squad cars. What was the man even _doing_ there? He was a forensic pathologist, for God's sake, not a Met officer. Oh, and the way he and Donovan had been in the station all weekend to gloat at him – and presumably Sherlock – locked up in their cells. 'Half-hourly welfare checks' be buggered. OK, so he didn't actually _know_ they'd been doing tequila shots, but they had been laughing like drains and high-fiving each other as they'd rat-a-tat-tatted on his door throughout the night, angering his cellmates. John had the bruises to show for it.

Sherlock refused the cup John held out to him. John sighed and blew on the hot liquid, pushing his flatmate up to squash himself into half a foot of sofa. It made him sad that Sherlock drew himself up tightly, and didn't trap him in place by swinging his feet down on his lap, as he used to. John felt he ought to lighten the mood.

"Funny; I always thought detainees had the right to have a phone call. I didn't—"

"Yes you did. I took it. I needed two."

"Who did you call?"

John really hoped for once the answer was "Mycroft". Visions of the older Holmes brother waving his magic brolly and making the charges go away had danced in his head all weekend like Saville Row-suited sugarplums. He'd promised himself he'd never refer to their saviour as "Piecrust" again, no matter how much his latest diet failed.

"Mrs. Hudson. Tried her on the landline then her mobile as she's at her sister's. Had to tell her to record _Top Gear_."

John pinched the bridge of his nose then rubbed the heels of his hands in his eyes. Sherlock stiffened and so John stopped invading his space and went to sit in his chair. He'd known this wouldn't be easy. Sherlock was… different from other people. Things were different around him; even John himself had been different since meeting up with him. But this situation was unprecedented. There were no models to draw on.

How many people went from realising they were in love with their same-sex flatmate, meaning they were gay, or possibly bi, who knows, he certainly didn't, to immediately going to consummate this love at a luxury hotel (Hooray! I'm a massive gayist! he thought hysterically) only to be brutally torn asunder as he and said flatmate were hustled into separate police cars? Would he now always associate the thrill of anticipation with flashing lights and blaring sirens? He doubted he'd ever be aroused again. God knows the water taxi along the Thames had been difficult enough as he'd fought to keep the atmosphere romantic by not hurling over the side. He knew he had to put his own issues aside and deal with Sherlock's, however.

"Look, about you twocing all those police officers' credit cards and the fraud…"

"I suppose you're waiting for me to apologise. And to promise to repay the debts by getting a job." Sherlock spat the last word out like he'd found a worm in his apple.

"No. Oh God no. The world isn't ready for that."

John actually smiled, despite his exhaustion – when had he last slept? – as a mental flicker-book of Sherlock employed in a variety of jobs and insulting people in each before causing World War Three flapped before his eyes.

He couldn't see Sherlock working as a—wait. What were his qualifications in? Had he even read for a university degree? An at-the-point-of-hallucinating John tried and failed to envision teenage Sherlock at lectures, studying. No, he would have been the one who changed the professor's slides somehow so they all said WRONG as they popped up behind him. Sherlock hadn't gone through growth and learning. That explained the gaps in his knowledge, his gangly social awkwardness; he'd been born from a stone egg on a mountain top, then achieved enlightenment…

"Great Sage, Equal of Heaven!" John had actually nodded off to sleep and woken himself up with these words. Well, at least he'd had a few minutes' kip. "It's OK. Don't worry. I'll get a proper job. Or two. Mike suggested I sign on with the Barts' staffing bureau thing they fill vacancies from now. He thinks the air ambulance bit of the trauma and emergency care centre would snap me up."

Sherlock looked even more miffed, if possible, and John made a mental note to leave his mobile at home and rely on his pager, if he started working at the hospital. Obviously Sherlock would find a way to bother him on that, but…

"At least this whole thing showed what a decent bloke Lestrade is. He was the only one not there gloating, did you notice? Course you did. I bet he'll have something to say to those idiots in his team as well, hey? I'm glad he gave it a miss."

"He wouldn't be there, in view of our history."

"Yeah, I suppose he does owe you a lot, seeing as how you solve most of his cases for him."

John was happy Sherlock was talking again. Blimey. That was a turn up. Usually he was desperate for peace and quiet.

"That, and our personal history."

John caught Sherlock's gaze. The silvery colour had darkened and a brow rose, waiting for a response.

"Yes, I can see that. No, actually I can't. You don't mean you and Lestrade…and that's why…"

The tight-lipped smirk and gimlet-eyed glare said it all.

"Wow. You must be bloody good, then." Stupidly John blurted out the first thing to pop into his tiny little brain.

"That, and the insurance policy I took out."

_He's enjoying this! _John's sleep-deprived brain spewed up the thought.

"Sherlock, I think I'm asleep. I'm not even sure I'm having this conversation. What the hell are you on about?"

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Fine. You know how when a relationship ends, people keep souvenirs?"

John recoiled, suppressing a scream as his flatmate cradled the skull sitting on the coffee table and caressed it with impossibly long, spidery fingers, a faraway look in his eyes.

"I, however, kept photos."

"Phot-ohh!" The supposedly soothing tea rushed back up to John's throat and he swallowed. "I take it you don't mean you and Lestrade strolling along the embankment at sunset, and you enjoying a hotdog?"

"That's exactly what I mean, but there's no need to be so coarse, John. You're not in barracks now."

"OK. I can't deal with this. Not now. Probably not ever. Can we agree that what happened in the past stays in the past and never, ever, ever, mention it again? Please? God, I need a shower. I stink. Who would have thought that being locked up in a cramped, shared cell with no bathroom facilities for a weekend would leave one quite so…"

"Sullied."

/ /

4


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: Double Trouble

**Author**: Cupcake-999

**Sherlock/John**. Rated T.

**Summary**: Sequel to _Double Date_. Sherlock and John might have realised they loved each other, but that's not enough. That's not even enough for a beginning.

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. These characters do not belong to me.**

**Chapter Two**

_Don't think about Sherlock and Lestrade. Or Lestrade and Sherlock_. Gaah! John shivered under the water, but it had nothing to do with the temperature. _Don't think about the embankment. Or Sherlock and Lestrade on the embankment._ _Was that how they'd met? Had Sherlock been a_—_ Did Lestrade_—Arggh! things not to think about._ Don't think about the skull. About who it had been and what had happened. Why have I never asked? _Because you don't want to know, his brain answered, sounding nauseous. _Don't think…_

Soon John had achieved an almost Zen state. All he heard was the shush of the shower and all he felt was the spray. Cleansing. The rubber-on-metal and the disinfectant-on-vomit stink of the cells was gone. Numbing. The shower brainwashing was working. The weekend had never happened. He and Sherlock hadn't lain on their backs in the gardens and looked up at the moon, much less more or less declared their feelings for one another—

"Garghh!"

He was quite proud that a manly grunt and not the girly scream threatening to jump loose issued from his shocked lips as the shower curtain was pulled back. To reveal Sherlock. Naked Sherlock. Naked, pale, gleaming Sherlock. _Don't look. That's rude. Don't close eyes. That's even ruder. _

"You're taking ages. There won't be enough hot water for me. This is not an invitation to aquaphilia."

"You'll be lucky. I'm so tired I can barely stand. Just get in. And close the curtain!"

It was strangely asexual, or nonsexual, or whatever, like showering after rugby, or sharing facilities in the army. He passed soap and flannel, and tried not to flinch at the bursts of cold as the shower head was commandeered away from him. There were surprises, of course: "Yes, my mother's Jewish. Don't _stare_ so, John, and "Really, a tattoo _there_? What a military cliché. How drunk were you the weekend prior to deployment?" "It's a regimental_–_yes, completely ratarsed. The whole week's a blur."

_The same soap. The same shampoo. The same toothpaste_. Probably the same hairbrush and toothbrush if his suspicions were correct – _we've been smelling the same for months_! No wonder everyone had assumed they were a couple from the word go. And perhaps we were, mused John. He nudged Sherlock's hands off the shower head he was trying to angle to his lanky height.

"Sit down, beanpole. I'll do your hair."

After a beat Sherlock telescoped in on himself at John's feet, and his rigid posture relaxed minute by minute against John's legs as John rubbed the shampoo in and rinsed. Oh he would like this, the big cat, thought John, taking his time massaging and gently scratching.

"Cats traditionally don't like water," replied his flatmate to his unvoiced thoughts, eliciting a chuckle. If John took an unnecessarily long time caressing and Sherlock pressed against him practically purring, neither mentioned it, and only stirred when the water ran tepid then cool. Then their positions felt strange.

"Never enough towels in this place!" announced John, leaping out to grab what was available so rapidly that Sherlock almost toppled over. John swiped at his hair and patted his body down with the bath towel and handed it over. He made do with the smaller face or hand or guest or whatever sized towel as he finished his routine and saw Sherlock take up his still-damp toothbrush to use in his turn. _Knew it!_

"Well, it's earlyish but I'm knackered. Think I'll just turn in."

"Don't leave."

John might have imagined the low entreaty but Sherlock's pale hands were translucent as they gripped the sides of the sink and his gaze caught John's in the mirror then slipped away. Despite being a doctor with extensive medical knowledge, John felt his heart clench and squeeze in a sudden, cold twist before it resettled and beat again. _God_.

"Hey, mate. I'm not. I won't. We're together now. Whatever comes, we're together, OK?"

The babble was made up on the spot, dropping from his lips as it did when he tried to comfort a patient. It seemed to work, gentling his skittish partner, and John stepped close behind him and looked at his reflection, really observed him for long minutes, and Sherlock stood and let him. He saw so many things in that grey vista before the pupils expanded to obscure the irises, leaving gunmetal circles of colour. There were shadows of the past, drifting, clouds across the moon. Bleak fears for the present, just out of the sight, but on the horizon. And finally, maybe, however nebulous, a tenuous hope for the future.

John finally gave a lopsided grin. "Come on, gorgeous. Get your coat, or at least your dressing gown; you're pulled."

Sherlock snorted. "If either of us were to be 'pulled' by the other, it would be you by me."

"Too tired. Don't care. So, your place or mine?"

"I believe yours has the advantage of being fractionally nearer."

And yours hasn't got a bed, you utterly mad bastard, thought John, hiding a grin, remembering his first foray into the other's room recently and the bizarre, distubing research into dating rituals he'd found.

"Have to warn you; I can't promise much tonight."

"I can't promise much." The aching, vulnerable confession again tugged at John.

"Sherlock, neither of us has to do anything we don't want to. If this is as good as it gets, it's still the best I've ever had. It's all fine. Come on. Let's just get to bed."

It had never looked so inviting. John would have thrown himself in like a child into the waves lapping the shore if his shoulder, leg, and now his bruises had let him. He wanted the clean, tight whiteness of the sheets to cradle him to unconsciousness. Instead he hung the towel over the foot, slid in and threw back the covers invitingly. Sherlock stood there before slipping under the duvet and wriggling out of his dressing gown.

"Oh!" And he sprang up, snatched his robe and glared. "I can't do this, not with all this male genitalia everywhere."

There was so much wrong with that phrase, John thought, and wanted to ask how Sherlock had managed before with all that male genitalia. On the embankment. _Don't go there_. He got to his weary feet.

"Fine. My pyjama bottoms should be here, somewhere; yes, well done, see you've found them. I'll get something else."

"Your black boxer shorts and t-shirt. They look good on you. Top drawer, right hand side."

And so John went to get into bed again. His phone beeped a text and, cursing, he grabbed it and thought he ought to answer.

"Mike, from the hospital. Seems the recruitment bloke's in tomorrow, so I'm going to meet him. Might be interesting." He had found being a locum GP tame.

They lay side by side and tension sparked off Sherlock like from a high voltage cable.

"Just cuddle, yeah? Don't you like cuddling?" Sherlock's face took on the cogitating, considering look it assumed when he was nursing an experiment, and the doctor repressed a shudder. Sherlock inched over and let John pull him close, until his arm cradled John and his head rested on John's chest, a reversal of their positions under the sky two days ago. A lifetime ago. John was starting to acclimatise to the weight, and the tickly, damp curls and drift off.

"John. We might have to get married."

"Sherlock, I'm pretty sure I haven't knocked you up. And if you think I'm taking on another man's by-blow…"

"Don't be ridiculous. If either of us were to be knocked up by the other, it would be you by me. Well?"

John peered down at the upturned face glaring at him as Sherlock propped himself up on sharp elbows on John's chest.

"Is this you being really crap at proposing and me being equally crap at replying? And _ow_. Lie down."


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: Double Trouble

**Author**: Cupcake-999

**Sherlock/John**. Rated T.

**Summary**: Sequel to _Double Date_. Sherlock and John might have realised they loved each other, but that's not enough. That's not even enough for a beginning.

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. These characters do not belong to me.**

**Chapter Three**

Sherlock slammed back down, eliciting a yelp. He was throbbing with meaningful silence, so John caressed his head to loosen him up.

"There's some money. A family thing. A trust." John felt the vibrations of that gloriously black velvet voice rumble against his chest. "I get it when I'm married. Or thirty. Whichever's first. Then you wouldn't have to work round the clock. You could still assist me. My work's important."

"I have to work, Sherlock. Practicing medicine is important to me."

"Fine. I don't expect you to be a _hausfrau_. But this way we could repay the debts and you could choose the work you do. And when you do it."

_You mean you could, so I can still pander to you._ "Yeah, OK. Let's go for it. I mean, you honour me, sir."

"There's one thing. Mother wouldn't be too happy to have a goy – a gentile – in the family."

"No worries. I'll cross over."

"Convert."

"OK." By now John would have agreed to anything to get some sleep. "It's fairly quick and painless, isn't it?" He made a hazy attempt to read the deafening silence. "Don't tell me. I'll find out. Well, thanks again. I do, I mean."

Sherlock still buzzed with electricity and while he was warm, the sizzle was keeping the sandman at bay. John intensified his massaging of Sherlock's scalp. He could fight dirty, too.

"Ohhh. That's nice. But why the coronal suture?"

John pressed deeper and lower into the suboccipitals and smiled as Sherlock melted into him. "Abbreviated cranial massage." He dropped farther, to the jaw muscles, as well as he could from his position, and Sherlock shifted to help, then winced and stilled.

"What?" John became Dr. Watson in a heartbeat, rolling Sherlock onto his back and shining the lamp on him, wincing himself at the dark bruises flowering on the pale skin over the ribs. Could even be a broken one there. "How?"

"Resisting arrest, they called it." Sherlock's deep contempt made air quotes around the first two words. "Maxwell, Stephens and that new one I had to correct last week. Isn't that what happened to you?"

"Told you not to reveal his gambling problem in front of people. Or Stephens' 'recreational' Internet use. No, mine wasn't from 'payback at the Ritz' time. Got mine later," John murmured. Not wanting to break the moment by leaving to get his medical kit, he kneeled next to Sherlock, rubbed his hands together and held them slightly above the site of injury, focussing intently.

"Really, John."

"No, reiki, Sherlock. I believe alternative treatments have a place alongside conventional medicine…" He directed the healing warmth as best he could. "I'm too low on energy for this to be effective. Let's try getting _your_ body to work on it."

He crawled to the foot of the bed and pulled Sherlock's feet into his lap, gave one an all-over rub then started feeling along the meridians.

"Acupressure, doctor?"

"Reflexology." He stopped about two-thirds down the centre arch. "Erm, Sherlock, your intestines are…how often do you use the loo?"

"You're very purient. I don't know if I like this facet. It's worrying. Oh, as often as I need to, about every three days."

John applied enough pressure to hopefully get the Qi to heal the injuries, and decided to take Sherlock for an X-ray tomorrow as well. He might as well combine it with his job interview at the hospital.

"There's only one problem with doing this," he confessed. "I've got a terrible foot kink, as I'm sure you've deduced. In fact I know you have, all that walking around barefoot, feet up on the sofa or plonked in my lap, wriggling those long, sexy toes at me. You even bit your toenails one day. I just have to…"

And he lifted a foot so he could suck the big toe into his mouth, hotly and wetly. The toe next to it got tiny bites from the tip to the base. The next got bites along its top and the fourth swirls of John's tongue as he licked it round and round. That really made the other man squirm and pant. The little toe…

"What's that?"

"Sorry! I'm in bed with a gorgeous bloke, sucking his toes, it's only natural—"

"Downstairs! Shh."

"Sounds like a bloody SWAT team!" John flinched at the sounds coming up from downstairs. He clutched his flatmate, wondering a) what else he'd been up to and b) would the team throw tear gas cannisters in the window? He pulled off his t-shirt. He could rip it in two, soak it in that glass of water and make them face masks, better than nothing, but Sherlock stilled him.

"Listen. Those heavy treads. Mycroft!"

"Have you been ignoring him?" whispered John.

"It's a bit difficult to answer one's phone when it's held by the desk sargeant," the detective hissed back.

"He won't bother coming up the stairs," reasoned John, settling back next to the other man and pulling the covers over them. Why even bother getting aroused, he wondered. If it wasn't the Metropolitan police it was the Special Forces coming to kill his libido.

"_He_ won't, no. But he doesn't keep a bitch and bark himself." And Sherlock thrummed with readiness as light steps trip-trapped up the stairs and their door was pushed open. By the woman John still thought of as Anthea. She stopped as if turned to stone and stared, her eyes rounding. She even dropped her BlackBerry.

"Piss off!" hissed Sherlock.

"It's not what it looks like," mumbled John. He felt the full force of Sherlock's blackest glare and shrugged. "Chance would be a fine thing."

"My oh my. Is it hot in here, or is it just you two?" The brunette retreived her phone and held it out. There was a click.

"Don't you dare, you harpy from hell. Piss off, I said!" Sherlock's voice held steely, velvet threat.

"And to think I kept turning you down, Dr. Watson. Wish I'd said yes now."

"You still can?"

"She really can't, John."

John nudged Sherlock, trying to show him he had a plan. "Hey, listen." He did his boyish charm thing. "Your boss. Any chance you don't tell him we're up here?"

"Absolutely not. Sorry," she smiled back and ducked her head out of the room. "Sir, up here. He's fine!"

She snapped a couple more shots of the two men before slow measured steps sounded and Mycroft came in. He stared without looking, John thought.

"Have the men stand down, if you would be so good." The woman nodded and left, sticking her head back in to throw them a wink. Who did that remind John of? Oh well, he had bigger problems to fry. Fish. In the sea. What? What if he was asleep and this was all a dream? No, Mycroft stood waiting, in that crosslegged stance of infinite patience.

"It's not what it looks like. Well, depends what it looks like, I mean…"

"Your goons had better not touch anything of mine downstairs or I will retaliate. Oh, and thank John nicely, Mycroft. He solved your tedious 'official leaks – oh no!' case for you."

"I did?"

"Yes; you said it was the butler, remember?"

John could barely. It seemed a lifetime ago. He listened to the detective explain how the man took advantage of the restricted, high-powered locations to which his exclusive business allowed him and his select staff access to help himself to highly sensitive secrets.

"And you owe me; while multi-tasking above and beyond etc., I sorted out that annoying royal problem as well."

"Yes, Buck House has been suitably appreciative and, shall one say, inviting. I'm sure we can divert some funds into a bonus payment for you." Mycroft thanked them both but didn't look happy. He even raised his eyebrow farther as he regarded the two men.

"Oh, perhaps I should mention we're getting married." Sherlock's tone was half defiant, half bored.

"Oh. Is that wise, little brother, with the good doctor being…"

Mycroft's stare dropped to John who scrabbled to fill in the blank. Shirtless and holding a ripped damp t-shirt like a kid clutching a soiled blanky? In bed with the man's equally shirtless brother? Arrested for credit card fraud? Mycroft let his glance dip farther.

"Oh, that! No problem. I'm passing over. Through. Converting."

"Dr. Watson! John. Welcome to the family! May I greet you properly?" And Mycroft bounded upon them, hugging him, kissing him, and trying to wrangle a wriggling little brother. John looked around expectantly for not-Anthea but alas… Sherlock suceeded in shrugging the older Holmes off them.

"When is the happy day?"

"As soon as possible. Next week."

"Next w–but the preparations, Sherlock!"

"Just the civil ceremony. The religious can be after. Any time."

"Of course, I understand. Young love…You'll allow me to help with the paperwork? Mummy will be ecstatic! And you bagged a doctor! May I tell her?" It was all his birthdays at once.

"Yes, do what you want, as long as you leave. Now."

"And you'll allow Mummy to organise things? Unless your mother, John…"

"No, please. That's fine. Could we just be alone now? It's all so new, you see…"

Mycroft seemed to have a sentimental streak; burbling more inanities he bowed out.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I forgot you'd have that odious toad as a brother-in-law."

"You'll have a vicious drunk as yours. I win."

"And _he's_ not the worst of them. God, how I hate _her_."

"Huh?"

"She's _truly_ evil. She's got something on him, must have, to have got that post with him. They don't realise; I'm the only one who sees through her. She's biding her time, soaking up all she can like some designer sponge, until she can oust him. She'll be running things one day soon, John. Mark my words."

"Her, she, who?"

"Her! Caro! Cousin Caro!" And Sherlock did an uncanny impersonation of the woman's slightly mad smile and busy texting fingers. "Second cousin Caroline, never quite far enough removed."


End file.
